


The Invisible Stan

by The Last Speecher (HeidiMelone)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Abandonment, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Invisibility, Loneliness, Mullet Stan Pines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 22:25:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19118914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeidiMelone/pseuds/The%20Last%20Speecher
Summary: "None of the guards had seen him.  None of the loan sharks looking for him could locate him.  No one knew what Stan looked like anymore.  Not even Stan himself."After getting kicked out of the house as a teenager, a childhood malady comes back, making Stan...difficult to find.





	The Invisible Stan

**Author's Note:**

> The concept that abused or abandoned children become invisible until given attention and loving care is from the Moomin series by Tove Jansson. Just so everyone knows, I didn't come up with it myself.

Stan wasn’t completely taken by surprise when he woke up one day able to see through his hands.  It was something he’d come accustomed to, as had Ford.  Ford, being the nerd he was, tried to come up with theories as to why this happened.  Why the shouting of their parents from the living room resulted in their shadows being only evidence of their existence.  Why their father’s heavy footsteps on the stairs made them impossible to see or hear.  Why the punishment of going to bed hungry night after night caused their fingers and toes to become ghostlike.

Stan never bothered with the why’s.  He only focused on the benefits.  It was a lot easier to sneak out when you were invisible, for one.  And easier to steal food from the kitchen when your footsteps didn’t make a sound and neither did your stomach, even if it was trying to eat itself from hunger.  And they didn’t have to panic and hide when their father made his way to their bedroom door in his loud shoes.  They sat in full view of the door, and stifled giggles at the confused expression on Filbrick’s face when he saw nothing but an empty room.

 _This won’t help when someone comes to find me_ , Stan thought to himself, idly wiggling his translucent fingers.  Because he was certain that someone would find him.  They had to, right?  Pops would cool off, Mom would tell Ford to go find Stan, and Stan would gladly follow his twin back to their room above the pawn shop.  Sure, he wouldn’t exactly be welcomed back with open arms, but he wouldn’t expect that from his Pops, anyways.  What mattered was that he would be home soon. 

The atmosphere would be tense and awkward, yeah.  He’d have to be “respectful” to Pops for a while, and let Ford punch his arm until it was black and blue as payback, but he wouldn’t be on the streets forever. 

 _I just need to give ‘em time_.  Stan checked his reflection in the mirror.  His face was still around, at least.  He stuffed his ghostlike hands into his pockets.  _Even Pops wouldn’t permanently kick me out_.

 

* * *

 

After a month or so, Stan had to start wearing long sleeves and gloves constantly.  He was the only person on the beach whose torso was completely covered.  A few strange looks went his way, but he did his best to ignore them.  Even when it was a cute chick who eyed his sopping clothes disdainfully.  It was difficult, though.  His sweat would pool underneath his clothes in the hot summer sun, causing large, unsightly damp patches.  Which kind of confused him.

 _Even when I’m sweating so much I feel it drip off me, I don’t see it.  How come I only see it when it makes me all wet?_   Stan cautiously sniffed his armpit, then recoiled at the stench.  _Eugh.  That’s ripe, even for me._   He turned back to the task at hand, investigating the latest spot to set off the metal detector he had swiped last week.  _But long sleeves are worth it, even if I gotta sweat like a pig.  Can’t really go out in public with invisible arms._  

Stan tossed another clump of sand over his shoulder, then leaned against his shovel tiredly.  Digging was more difficult in this attire.  At least he could still get by wearing shorts instead of pants.  At the moment, his legs were the only part of him not actively drenched in sweat, instead feeling the crisp breeze off the ocean.

_I didn’t think I’d get this bad.  I mean, it’s not like anyone’s hurt me.  They’ve just ignored me.  That means I’m fine.  Right?_

“Right,” he muttered to himself, trying to lie about the sinking feeling in his chest.  He was a good liar, after all.  Maybe he could fool himself.  After a brief moment watching the gulls careening across the bright blue waves, he let out a sigh and picked his shovel up again.  Under the sand piled on top of his feet, he couldn’t see his beat-up sneakers beginning to fade.

 

* * *

 

Stan didn’t know how Ford managed to find him.  He hadn’t found himself in years.  Not since his stint in the Columbian prison.  In hindsight, that was a bad idea.  Sure, being a trafficker had finally given him a purpose that made his fingers and toes visible for the first time since he was seventeen.  But the temporary reprieve hadn’t been worth it.  The guards stomping through the South American jungle had brought to mind his father’s own footsteps resounding on the creaky, wooden stairs, and before he knew it, he was gone.  Completely.  All attempts to become visible since had been useless.

None of the guards had seen him.  None of the loan sharks looking for him could locate him.  No one knew what Stan looked like anymore.  Not even Stan himself.

So the letter that slid underneath the door of Stan’s dingy motel room was a hell of a surprise.  Stan cautiously made his way over to the door and picked up the letter.  He recognized Ford’s handwriting right away.

 _He…he wants me?_   Hope began to bubble through Stan’s veins, an emotion so foreign it took him a moment to recognize.  _He wants to see me?  He needs my help?_   A small unseen smile forced its way onto Stan’s see-through face.  _Someone wants me around._   His eyes widened at the sight of his fingers, clenching the letter tightly in joy, slowly fading into view.  An invisible tear dropped onto the letter.  _Duh._   _If anyone could bring me back, it’s Ford._

 

* * *

 

He’d become completely visible for a few sweet moments, right before he knocked on Ford’s door.  Now, he was back to square one.  Stan sat on the floor, his back against the broken damn machine his brother had just vanished into.  And not vanished in the way Stan was familiar with.  No, he was gone.  Really gone.

“I just got him back,” Stan choked through his sobs.  “I can’t lose him again.”

 _“What about you?”_ some part of him screamed.  _“You just got yourself back, too!”_   Stan tried to shove those feelings down.  Down to the soles of his rapidly disappearing boots.  It didn’t matter what happened to him.  Not now that the only person who could make him turn visible again was gone.  Stan leaned his head back.  His tears trickled down his face, into the jacket he now knew was red.  His hair, which he had realized only moments before had gotten really long, was starting to get damp, too.  Anger suddenly surged through him. 

 _No!  Fuck my feelings!_   Stan brusquely wiped his tears away.  _I can’t be a lazy, selfish asshole anymore.  Ford’s gone.  I’ve gotta bring him back._   He got to his feet _.  It might take years, but I’ll do the last thing he told me to.  I’ll help him.  God knows he needs it._   Filled with purpose, Stan stomped away.  As he passed the glass window separating the machine from the console covered with blinking lights and switches, he stopped.  His heart leapt into his throat.

“I’m still here,” he whispered.  His voice creaked from lack of use.  After all, why bother speaking if no one could hear you?  Stan swallowed, staring at his reflection.  “I’m still here.”

 

* * *

 

Stan might have been mostly back after that night, a new sense of purpose making him visible in a way he hadn’t been for far too long.  But he was still partly gone.  Luckily, Ford seemed to favor long-sleeved clothes, pants, and close-toed shoes.  Unluckily, Stan despised almost every single item of clothing he could find.  Until he spotted the suit at the back of Ford’s closet.  It was piled up in the corner, like Ford only had it out of obligation and had thrown it in there to pretend like it didn’t exist.

 _Okay, I get why he didn’t wanna wear it,_ Stan thought upon inspecting the suit.  It was clearly Pops’.  At the mere thought of his father, his upper arms began to fade.  Stan swallowed.  _But it’s either this, or those turtlenecks that smell like they haven’t been washed in months_.  He sighed and set the suit to the side.  _Now, does Ford have any five-fingered gloves?_

 

* * *

              

No one in town questioned why Stan wore a suit throughout the year.  No one even cared.  It was one of the few bright sides to the oddity of Gravity Falls, in Stan’s opinion.  They coughed up money for his fake attractions whether or not Stan was drenched in sweat.  He did get a few odd looks about the gloves.  But that might have been due to Stan’s clumsy attempts to adjust a pair of Ford’s six-fingered gloves to fit him better.  A woman with an exorbitant amount of blue eyeshadow pulled him aside after one of his tours to give him the address for a seamstress she knew.

Stan didn’t intend on following up with some random lady’s opinion on his clothes.  He didn’t need to wear gloves all the time, anyways.  Some days were better than others, in which case he went gloveless.  But as the years passed and Stan ran up against wall after wall trying to fix Ford’s machine, the days he couldn’t see his hands became more and more frequent.

 _Fine.  Fine.  I’ll go see this “seamstress”.  If only because I think my shitty sewing is resulting in fewer tips.  Who knew there were people around who actually cared how things look?_   Stan rang the doorbell.  Immediately, he got the urge to flee.  _She’s probably not even here anymore!  It’s been way too long!  Make a break for it, Stan!_  Before he could run away, the door opened.  A woman with graying hair peered up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Yes?” she asked in an accented voice.  Stan cleared his throat.

 _Time to slip into Mr. Mystery_.  He grinned at her charmingly.

“I’ve heard you’re a fine seamstress.”  The woman nodded.  “Well, how’d ya feel about fixing up some gloves for me?”

“I won’t do it for free.”

“Of course not!”

“And I want to be paid up front,” the woman added.  Stan stifled a groan.

_Great.  There goes my plan._

“Well, yeah,” he said, trying to hide his disappointment.  He’d planned on telling her he’d pay her after the job was done, and then never cough up the money.  But then again, in a town as small as Gravity Falls, where word of mouth traveled fast, maybe it was for the best he couldn’t do that.  “Us small business owners have to support each other, y’know?”  The woman looked at him for another moment before standing to the side.

“Come in,” she instructed.  Stan obediently walked inside.  “Show me what you want me to fix.”  Stan handed her a pair of gloves, the first ones he’d messed with, and thus the pair he’d done the worst job on.  The woman looked the gloves over, tutting softly.  “This is not good.  I can fix it, but gloves are delicate.  It will take extra effort to repair without completely destroying them.  And with extra effort, extra cost.”

 _Figures_.

“So, do you have a friends and family discount?” Stan asked.  The woman narrowed her eyes at him.

“We are not friends or family, Mr. Pines.”

“Yeah, but-” Stan started.  A kid ran into the room, brandishing a red screwdriver.

“ _Mijo_ , go back to your room,” the woman instructed.  The kid stopped in front of Stan, staring up at him with wide eyes.  Stan rubbed the back of his neck.

“Listen to your…grandma?” he said cautiously.  The boy and woman both nodded.  “Yeah, listen to your grandma, kid.  We’re doing business.”

“But you’re Mr. Mystery!” the boy chirped.

“Yeah.”

“I have something for you!”

“…Okay?” Stan said.  The boy held out the screwdriver.  Stan took it from him with a frown.  It wasn’t one he recognized, but it had a label printed on it reading “The Mystery Shack”.

_That useless handyman probably lost it so long ago I forgot it existed._

“Thanks, kid.”  The boy beamed.  “What, uh, what’s your name?”

“Soos!”

“Soos,” Stan repeated.  He glanced at Soos’s grandmother, then back at Soos.  “Y’know, Soos, I need a new handyman around the shack.  Think you can figure out how to use this?” he asked, handing the screwdriver back.  Soos’s eyes widened further, something Stand hadn’t thought was possible.

“I mean, maybe- I don’t-”

“Maybe is good enough for me.  Wanna be the new Shack handyman?” Stan asked.  The boy nodded eagerly.  “Great.  Now, uh, go back to your room.  I’ll figure out your work schedule later.”

“Do as he says, _mijo_ ,” Soos’s grandmother said gently.  Soos ran away.  Stan grinned at her.

“So, about that friends and family discount…”

 

* * *

 

Even though Stan had paid to get the gloves fixed, he found himself not needing them as much after he hired Soos.  Something about that kid brought back the warm feelings Stan had gone so long without.  It was a bit annoying at times, and especially so when Soos tried to follow him around the Shack instead of doing his job.  But overall, Stan liked the kid.  Not that he would ever admit it.

And he liked Wendy, too.  Once things picked up so much that Soos couldn’t be both a handyman and run register, Stan had begrudgingly put up signs over town.  The teenager had been the first person to walk through the door.  She didn’t give a single damn about the job, which Stan respected.  But even though she didn’t care, she still got most of her work done, which Stan respected even more. 

So it wasn’t that big of a problem to give her extra hours and a pay raise when her mom passed away unexpectedly.  It wasn’t even that big of a problem to give her a couple weeks off.  He’d done the same for Soos when his grandma got sick and wound up in the hospital for a while.  After all, he could run the Shack by himself.  Even if he had to wear gloves on those days.

Stan didn’t like agreeing to watch Shermie’s grandkids over the summer.  It had been thirty years since Ford vanished.  Things were getting bleaker.  He had to start wearing gloves again and couldn’t wander around the Shack barefoot like he preferred.  If his invisibility started progressing further and further, he didn’t want to deal with trying to hide it from some snot-nosed kids.

But like it had when he’d hired Soos and then Wendy, those days where his hands couldn’t be seen became fewer and fewer.  It was enough to make Stan wonder what the connection between spending time with these kids and staying visible could be.

As he stared silently up at his twin brother, those thoughts ran through his head.  Every time he’d started to fade, only to be brought back by the kids.  The kids that had gone fishing with him on that day he’d stared at his reflection in the lake, waiting for it to disappear.  The kids that he’d punched dinosaurs and zombies for.  The kids that had fought tooth and nail to rescue the Shack from that punk, Gideon Gleeful.  The kids that, despite his best attempts to be distant with them, had weaseled their way into his life.

The kids that he hadn’t expected to shoehorn in on his reunion with Ford.  Stan wasn’t happy about that.  He was even more upset that they had witnessed Ford’s solid punch knocking Stan to the ground.

 _In my defense, I didn’t expect him to hit me._   A snarl twisting his face, Ford glared down at Stan.

“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” Ford demanded.  Stan opened his mouth.

 _I brought you back.  I did what you asked.  Is that not enough?_   He spoke, but the words vanished in the air.  Ford’s scowl deepened.

Stan’s feet, shoes and all, began to disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With how many other in-progress fics I have, I didn't plan on making this into a multichap. But the way this part ended made me feel bad, so I'm going to post a second chapter resolving everything. And I'll do it soon, while I'm still inspired.  
> As always, if you have any questions or comments, please leave them below or message me at thelastspeecher.tumblr.com.


End file.
